


the samwell men's fencing team

by fictionalfauna



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Fencing AU, M/M, stab please? idk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-14 07:35:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10531857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionalfauna/pseuds/fictionalfauna
Summary: "Fencing, also called Olympic fencing, is a sport in which two competitors fight using 'rapier-style' swords, winning points by making contact with their opponent. Fencing was one of the first sports to be played in the Olympics. It is based on the traditional skills of swordsmanship, and the sport is divided into three competitive scenes: foil, épée, and sabre. Most competitive fencers choose to specialize in only one weapon." -wikipedia





	1. August 12th-August 26th: Orientation

**Author's Note:**

> These characters do not belong to me, they belong to the wonderful Ngozi  
> I did take some of the dialogue directly from the comic, just fyi.  
> This was beta'd by the amazing andrewsfitt (scenicsteve on tumblr)

     Eric sat down in front of the camera, took a deep breath, and leaned over to switch it on. “Helloooo, Internet Land!” Eric began. “As y’all can see, I’ve changed locations! I’m here in my freshman dorm at Samwell, and oh my goodness, the campus is SO GORGEOUS. Let me give y’all a little tour of my dorm,” he picked up his camera and panned it across his dorm room. “Over here is my bed and all the boxes on it, here’s my closet with more boxes, down the hall is the bathroom, and up one floor are the student kitchens! I’ve already put them to good work!” He held up the pie he had pulled out of the oven fifteen minutes before. “Now, you may be wondering: why am I here a week and a half before frosh orientation? Good question. Eight out of twenty of Samwell’s athletic teams are officially in pre-season as of August 13th. Now, I’ve got my first meeting with the fencing team in about,” he checks his watch, “two hours. Which means I’ve gotta go because though this campus may be beautiful, it is huge. And also a maze. I’ll update you on how it went.” He signs off since he’s got to get his stuff together. He checks his email for the third time, to make sure he doesn’t have to bring his gear, or anything (He couldn’t imagine why he would, not to the first meeting of the season). All clear. So, once he grabs his bag, carefully places his pie in a white cardboard pastry box, and locks his door, he’s off.

     Walking through the dorm and down to the campus, he can't help but notice how empty everything is. Apparently, the pre-season is only required for some sports.

     After getting lost no less than three times in this maze of a campus and locating the nondescript grey building the club was located in (it was on the completely opposite side of campus! Behind the ice rink! Who put a fencing club BEHIND an ice rink? Stupid ice sports and their stupid need for a stupid huge arena), Eric was not exactly excited to be there. This was immediately mollified when he arrived at the club, where he was greeted just inside the door by a very enthusiastic man who shouted, “Oh shit, brah, you brought pie? Put it over there,” once he saw the box in Eric’s hands, and points to a table shoved in the corner. Once the pie was safely delivered, the strangely excitable man herded Eric towards the small number of nervous-looking freshmen, standing just off center in the open space of the room. After standing around quietly for a bit more, waiting for everyone to arrive without much more than a few low-toned whispers, the animated man started to talk.

     “Hey, taddies! I’m Shitty Knight,” Eric was startled a bit at this, but the man -- Shitty? --kept talking as if nothing strange had happened, “I’m a junior here at Samwell, I’m the resident team extrovert and holder of secrets, and I’m here with this beaut of a man, Jack Zimmerman. Take it away, Jack.” He pointed over to a tall, extremely grumpy looking man with the most startling blue eyes Eric had ever seen.

     “I’ll be your Captain this year, and I work closely with our coaches, Hall and Murray,” Jack said gruffly, and he gestured towards two men who were standing behind Eric, “to help each one of you improve and fence to the best of your ability.”

     After that, people just spoke of what they expect for the season and then the newbies -- taddies? -- were released to get snacks. What looked like a swarm of people converged on Eric’s pecan pie, and before he could say a word, they’d all started shoving pie into their faces and it was gone like that.

     Eric got back to his dorm later, exhausted, brain full of new information and arms full of paper. He brushed his teeth, changed, and collapsed onto his new bed. He’ll film the rest of his vlog tomorrow.

* * *

 

     “Two weeks of non-stop fencing with an overachieving captain really do things to your body,” Eric said to his camera, wincing when he shifted. “I haven’t been this sore since I started dancing en pointe. And thanks, guys, for all the supportive comments. The team is… um. I guess it just takes time to click with people after they do unspeakable things to your pies. So there’s Shitty. He’s very,” Eric paused for a second, “loud. I still don’t know his first name. Then there’s Ransom and Holster. Sorry, Holster and Ransom. They have christened me ‘Bitty’ and I really don’t understand their relationship with each other. And everyone else. And last but not least, our dearly beloved captain: Jack. He has said exactly four words directly to me in the past two weeks: ‘Bittle. Eat more protein.’ It’s not my fault I’m small! It’s also never hurt my performance in anything, I don’t see why he has a problem with it. Maybe he’s just a dick.”

* * *

 

     See, Eric (wait, Bitty now, he thought to himself) had always been secretly terrified of his equipment malfunctioning or an opponent’s blade snapping. Now, this hadn’t been much of a problem in the past, at the level he’d been competing at. But now, Bitty’s in college. And they’re serious here. Which means rouge hits to the mask (one of the worst things you could have break). Just his luck, at practice Ollie accidentally hit Eric’s mask. And then suddenly he was on the floor and he couldn’t breathe. Coach Murray leaned over him and said, “Bittle. Hey, son? You okay?” while the team chattered around him. He felt like he was about to start crying so he ripped off his mask. Coach took one look at him and told him to go back to his dorm to lie down. Bitty was unspeakably grateful, but as he was leaving, he heard Jack say, “Coach, seriously. Why do we even have this kid?” It just made him feel worse.


	2. September 2nd-September 3rd: The Haus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ao3 is causing sections to repeat randomly, so sorry about that lol.

     A week later, after practice, Shitty had hollered toward the taddies to join him by the water fountain. Once they’d all made their way over there, he loudly announced, “Listen up, frogs. I’ve gotta show you all something. Meet me at Jason Street and Elm Street, the 4th building on the left. 10 am. Be there. Not showing up-”

     One of the taddies cut in, a kid in Bitty’s Introduction to Fine Arts class. “But Shitty? I have clas-”

     Shitty just continued talking louder. “-is a finable offense! Got that? Good.” With that, he sprinted across the room to where Jack was meeting with the coaches. Bitty was beginning to understand why the rest of Samwell disliked the men’s fencing team.

     “Well then,” Ollie said, more to himself than to the rest of the taddies, “I guess I’m missing my class tomorrow?”

* * *

 

     The building Bitty arrived at the next morning was, surprisingly, nicer than some of the other houses he’d passed. It was painted a pale blue with a beautiful old oak tree in the yard, the leaves just beginning to change color and fall on the two chairs settled underneath it, and an American flag hanging from the second-floor balcony waved gently in the September breeze. The only things that made it less-than-picturesque were the red solo cups scattered across the yard. As he stepped foot onto the lawn (carefully avoiding the various pieces of clothing strewn around it) to join his growing group of teammates, Shitty barged out of the beaten-looking door wearing khaki shorts and a shirt with a Christmas tree on it. “Goooood morning, frogs! You, the uninitiated of the Samwell fencing team, have the distinct and unparalleled honor of entering, for the first time, our humble abode: The Haus. The decisions you make in this house will be regretful but glorious. The alcohol you drink will be cheap but plentiful. And the loss of virginity you may experience within these walls will range from reassuring to emotionally damaging."

     He gestured for the taddies - or were they frogs now? - to follow him into the house -- Haus? Shitty led the frogs down the hallway, saying something about hazing, but Bitty’s attention was caught by a doorway streaming light into the hall. He poked his head in and -- Dear Lord, was that supposed to be a kitchen?

     Bitty walked into the extremely messy room and took a look around. The sink was full of dirty dishes and the only table was covered by more red solo cups, a keg, a bong, and more typical college frat... items. He opened a cupboard only to find it filled with bottles of Sriracha. The rest of the cupboards yielded much of the same. But still, it was a kitchen. And that, he could work with. And work with it, he did.

     Only a little while later, when Bitty’s first pie was almost done, he overheard two of the sophomores, Ransom and Holster come in through the front door. “Wait, Holster. What the fuck is that smell? Goddamn! It’s like my aunt’s house.” Ransom said.

     “Bro, I’ve been to your aunt’s house? And no offense, but compared to this, her house smells like a shithole.” Holster replied.

     Bitty pulled his pie out of the oven, smiling. He turned around, and there were about seven people standing in the doorway, looking at him. “Oh. Hey. Everyone. Sometimes, when I’m in kitchens, I just… pies appear,” he said sheepishly.

     “Wow,” Shitty remarked, “we’ve only been gone for, like, five minutes.”

     “Bro. What kind of pie is that?” Ransom asked, sniffing the air.

     “Um, a ‘various fruits I found in your kitchen’ pie.” Holster reached out for the pastry, but Bitty snatched it away. “No! It needs to cool before you muscle monsters destroy it. Back off.”

     Once the pie had cooled enough, Bitty let everyone try it, after he made them sit down to eat it like _civilized humans_. Well, he tried to.

     “Hoooly fuck, bruh. This is like, the best fucking thing I’ve ever put in my mouth, the fuck?” Shitty moaned around his mouthful of pie. 

     “How the actual fuck did you make this in our shithole of a kitchen, Bitty? Are you like a pie wizard or something?” Ransom asked, leaning forward. 

     “I didn’t get the title of best baker in Madison for nothing,” Bitty winked. “Jesus fuck, consider yourself an honorary Haus resident from now on. I’m giving you a key and you now have unlimited access to our kitchen. If you want, we can buy you some better ingredients. I just need more of this pie,” Shitty said, tilting his chair back. Suddenly, the plastic chair’s back leg snapped, sending him crashing unceremoniously onto the floor. Ransom and Holster started cackling at the sight, and soon the frogs joined

     “Jesus fuck, consider yourself an honorary Haus resident from now on. I’m giving you a key and you now have unlimited access to our kitchen. If you want, we can buy you some better ingredients. I just need more of this pie,” Shitty said, tilting his chair back. Suddenly, the plastic chair’s back leg snapped, sending him crashing unceremoniously onto the floor. Ransom and Holster started cackling at the sight, and soon the frogs joined in, until the kitchen was filled with the scent of pie and the sound of laughter. As sunlight streamed in through the windows, basking everything in a gentle golden glow, Bitty grinned. This was shaping up to be a good beginning to the next four years of his life.


	3. September 20th

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am aWARE that there’s like no way jack or kent would qualify for the 2008 Olympics but shhh that’s   
> not important. Also yes jack is vaguely based off of Alexander Massialas. That is also not important.

     The day Bitty admitted to his vlog that he wanted to quit started out like any other. That is, until at practice when Jack slammed his blade into the side of Bitty’s shoulder and he freaked out. Coach Hall gave him a bit of a hard time, and that was fine, he could deal with harsh coaches (Hall wasn't harsh compared to his old ballet instructor, Katya. Not by a long shot.). But Jack was the one who had yelled, “This isn’t a joke, Bittle. Either get with the program or quit,” and Bitty was getting tired of him. His self-confidence was plummeting and he spent more and more of his time not in practice or class curled up in his bed, playing games on his phone and ignoring his responsibilities. And the actual season hadn’t even started yet. 

    After practice, while everyone was pulling off their gear and Jack was meeting with the coaches, the team tried to reassure him, sensing his frustration. 

     “Yo, Bitty, Jack just gets real bitchy near the end of every pre-season.” Ransom said, patting him on the back.

     “He’ll go back to regularly scheduled levels of bitchy after our first tournament,” Holster chimed in distractedly, trying to get his body cord unraveled from where it managed to get caught on his plastron.

     “Hey, when a bro’s dad is Bob Zimmermann, a bro’s gonna turn into a fencing freak every once in awhile,” Shitty said. “Jesus fuck brah, how did you get that fucking tangled? C'mere.” Shitty beckoned Holster over and started trying to untangle him.

     “...Who’s Bob Zimmermann?” Bitty asked. Everyone in the locker room slowly turned to stare at him and it made Bitty supremely uncomfortable. “Wait. What did I- y’all, quit staring at me like that! This is exactly what happened before the football team locked me in a utility closet overnight in seventh grade.” Apparently asking a fencer who Bob Zimmermann is is like asking a ballerina who Anna Pavlova is. Or a sitcom writer who Lucille Ball is. Or any breathing human who Beyonce is. Wait. If Bitty didn’t even know who this obviously well-known fencer was, was he even trying, like Jack had said?

     “Just google him,” Shitty said dismissively. Bitty pulled out his phone and did just that. After tap or two, he found a picture of Jack’s dad, Bob Zimmermann, holding his third gold medal in men’s individual foil at the summer Olympic games in 1980. Well then. That may have explained some of Jack’s behavior.

* * *

     Once Bitty got back to his dorm that night, he pulled out his laptop to do some more in-depth research. He found article after article on Bob’s wins and successes when he was a competitive foil fencer. He read about when Jack began fencing at the club Bob founded in Montreal at the age of six. He read about how Jack improved immensely and was fencing competitively by age 8. He watched an interview with Jack where he was asked about how he felt, having such a famous dad. Jack replied with, “I just don’t want to disappoint him,” before obviously retreating into his head. Why was Jack so nervous? Bitty knew firsthand how amazing he was at what he did.

     The next article he found was titled “Jack Zimmermann: Unlucky Victim or Hopeless Addict?” What? Bitty clicked on the article and nervously tapped his fingers on his leg while he waited for it to load. By this point, he had moved over to a corner of his bed and curled up there. Finally, the page loaded to reveal a picture of a teenage Jack posing with three other fencers. The caption read, “2008 Canadian Olympic foil team.” Jack was in the Olympics? How had Bitty never heard about this? He scrolled down, and read, “Last night, the Canadian Olympic fencing team lost a key member. Jack Zimmermann, son of Bob Zimmermann, three time Olympic medalist, overdosed on an unknown substance shortly after three A.M. last night. He has withdrawn from the Olympic team, his parents citing that, ‘he is in no shape to compete.’ 18 year old fencer Kent Parson will be competing in his spot. Now, we must speculate. Why did the holder of the Zimmermann legacy feel the need to poison himself? Was it the unbearable pressure of being the youngest competitor in this year’s Olympics? Was it his well-known fear of letting down his father, three-time gold medalist, Bob Zimmermann? Or could it have been-” Bitty slammed his laptop shut, feeling sick. What gave those journalists the right to make speculations on what probably very nearly killed Jack? Bitty powered off his laptop and pulled his thin blankets over his head. He had a lot to think about.

 


End file.
